This has been a poem.

Insert cryptic sentence about hating myself here.

“I’ll see you in Hell.”

“I fucking hope so.”

Good, good. Let the self-loathing flow through you.

sick as a dog

I’d give anything just to stop coughing.
It feels like my lungs are trying
to stage a daring escape
from the prison bars that form my rib cage.
I’m leaking like a lemon that just rolled off the used car lot.
People cringe when they see me.
They know I’m infected.
They know that I am a liability.

And no one wants to have a cup of coffee with a liability. 

Self-medicating is rarely a viable solution, but I never said I had hopes of achieving any problem solving tonight.

date with an urban legend.

She had a body like an hour glass,
heels like a knife,
and a face that makes a man
want to gamble with his life.
Her voice crawled in my ears
and made my skin crawl like lice.
I wanted her in my pocket.
I would have paid any price.

I can’t think straight.
The room is growing… fussy?
No, fuzzy. That’s the word for it.
Wait, where did she go?
Who is this woman?
This isn’t who I came home with.
Her eyes glow like the devil’s.
Her smile stretches out like a gash and swallows up the sky.

I woke up in a bathtub full of ice
with a set of ragged stitched creeping up my side
and a little handwritten note tied to my thigh.
It read “Hey, stud! I thought the date went nice.”
Now, promise that you’ll miss me?
Maybe not as much as you’ll miss your kidney.
I know that cab fare to the hospital is expensive,
so on the dresser, I left a fifty.” 

short and sweet

My life is a mess
but I guess
that’s the way I like it best.

Well, I’ll be damned (12/18/2009)

I don’t know what you’ve been told 
but that pretty little thing ain’t got no soul. 
I met her with my heart and 
I left her with a hole. 
I know she looks hot,
but that bitch is cold.
I loved when I was young,
but everybody gets old
and I’ll be damned if 
I let another woman think she has me under control.

Mr. Cooper told me “No more Mr. Nice Guy”, 
but when the devil gives you advice,
you ought to think twice 
before you comply.

cosmic roaches (1/8/2010)

My head is flying faster than a lightening bolt on cocaine. My words leave bystanders numb and unable to feel, like liquefied morphine trapped in a needle. I pasted a postage stamp on my tongue and sent my mind on trip to the Land of X’s and O’s. The villagers drove a stake through my chest and struck black gold. Gallons of tar black crude oil poured out of my chest, soaked into the ground, and pillaged the surrounding vegetation. That’s what they get for trying to make a sacrifice out of me.

However, my body did not decay and rot; it burst into flames. My skin and my bones disintegrated and the wind blew the bits into the sky so I could infect the constellations. A black cloud of cadaverous dust covers the sky, devouring the stars like black hole locusts. Cosmic cancer and perpetual pestilence break the silence, followed shortly thereafter by the skittering of the surviving roaches.

You’ve got a golden tongue but I hope you’ve got the right dosage of silver in those bullet to bring me down. Curiosity couldn’t kill enough cats and this king cobra couldn’t eat enough rats. I’ve got the Midas touch, every thing I hold turns into rotten flesh covered in gold. The leeches are warning me to protect my neck, but I’d be more than happy to sacrifice my skin. I hope I taste like the leftover meat stuck in between my teeth, vulture.

poems written by an 8 year old.

I am a caterpillar killer.
Seeing their fuzzy guts shoot out makes me quiver
and shiver with delight,
but it ain’t right.
I shouldn’t get so much delight
from hurting animals that are smaller than I.

I killed an ant with a magnifying glass.
I put the fear of God in his tiny little insect ass.
If you should ask why I do it,
I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to answer.
It’s probably a secret lodged deep in my sub-conscious
that I’ll have to find in the therapy my family can’t afford.

But I can totally afford an ant farm.